


Squirm

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode: s14e09 The Spear, Humiliation, M/M, Possession, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 02:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Michael decides that keeping Sam close will crush Dean even more.





	Squirm

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch hit for blackbluerose for the 2018 SPN J2 Xmas Exchange. One of your prompts mentioned MoC or Demon Dean keeping Sam as a pet but after watching the mid-season finale, I couldn’t resist putting a twist on that with Michael!Dean. Hope you like it! Special thanks to the mods who run such a great challenge.
> 
> Thanks to nigeltde and deadlybride for acting as sounding boards for this fic and all my discord crew for their support :smooches to you all:

The snap. It happens and suddenly Sam is alone. 

It takes him a second to recover - being transported by angels always makes him unsteady - but when the room stops spinning, he finds himself in an elegant penthouse that he’s never seen before. Modern, decorated in grays and whites, and newly remodeled if the paint smell is any indication. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view of the Kansas City skyline. He runs and presses his palms and forehead against the cool glass to scan desperately for any signs of the chaos below, but there is nothing except quiet darkness and the blinking of street lights.

“Have a seat.” The warm, familiar voice pours over him, at once calming him and then making the hair on the back of neck stand up as he turns around.

Michael is settled on the black leather sofa, his dark suit blending into it seamlessly, one leg crossed comfortably over the other. He’s changed out of Dean’s green jacket and rough blue jeans into a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. _Another vest,_ Sam thinks and remembers Dean stripping off the hat and suit that he showed up in as if contaminated.

“Where’s Jack and Cas?” Sam demands, his voice broken with concern. He starts to circle away from Michael, inching along the window, but the only way out of the room is directly behind the archangel.

“Safely stored away.”

Sam stops. “Stored? For _what_?”

“For when I need them,” Michael says as he adjusts the pressed edge of his pant leg. “I asked you to have a seat.” 

With a flick of Michael’s fingers, Sam is tossed across the room to land in front of a chair opposite the couch. Sam pulls himself up onto the soft leather and sits on the cushion edge, looking around the quiet room, listening for any activity outside the suite’s double doors.

“Where is everyone? Shouldn’t you be out leading the attack?”

Michael raises his eyebrows with flat condescension. “Things are proceeding. I don’t need to be hands-on with the wet work.”

“You son of a bitch—” He tries to stand but is held in place by Michael’s power.

“Our conversation today gave me an epiphany.” Michael stands up and walks slowly across the living room. “If I really want to crush the fight out of my vessel, then I've been going about it all wrong. I simply need to keep you next to me.” 

He stops in front of Sam’s chair and looks over Sam, appraising every inch. “If Dean keeps quiet and you behave, then I won’t hurt a hair on his darling little Sammy again.”

“No—” He tries to stand but no matter how much he squirms, he can’t move and Michael isn’t done.

“I have other interests of course. It’s time I took an active interest in the nephilim. He’s family after all, and the engine that’s going to help me create a new world. And you are my greatest tool with that. Perfect leverage to make Jack behave. And Cas? He’ll be part of my negotiations to bring heaven in line. They need to keep things running and Naomi is a resourceful angel with the ones I send back to her. So, it’s a win-win-win.”

Sam shivers. No one’s ever won with archangels. Previous experience with Lucifer taught him that. He glances around the room, looking for an escape, for anything that might draw Dean to the surface, to help him throw off Michael, anything but this slow torture. He balls his fists and fights the urge to scream at this polite facade.

“What do you want from me?” he says, every word punched out.

Michael’s face lights up at the bitterness in Sam’s voice. “First, those rags have to go.” There is a rustling sound and he is released from Michael’s power to slump back in the chair. When he looks down, he’s wearing a white dress shirt and navy slacks with dress shoes. It could be one of their FBI suits except when Sam runs a hand down his chest the cotton is whispery and softly expensive against his skin.

“Dean always liked you in suits. So much better in Armani than those thrift-store rejects.” Michael signals Sam to stand. “Let’s see how it looks.”

Numbly, Sam gets to feet. “Now, turn.” There is no disagreeing with his tone and Sam rotates to face the window, forcing his arms to dangle at his sides despite how his skin crawls under Michael’s intense appraisal. The darkness outside the window reminds Sam that innocent people are being turned into monsters below. He's startled out of that thought when he feels Michael’s hands grab his hips. They hold him firmly until he settles down. As Michael tugs the fine wool into place, straightening the creases, and running his fingers inside the waistband to judge the fit, Sam has to bite his lip. “Very nice. Those pants are cut perfectly for your long legs.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Sam grits out before he can think about it and he turns to face Michael expecting fury but the archangel just smiles. He walks back over to his original seat on the couch and drops elegantly into place.

“Get on your knees, Sam,” he said.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. It won’t go well.”

There’s no other option but for Sam to drop down on his knees on the soft carpet, letting his arms hang at his sides. He takes a deep breath and focuses on Dean being locked down inside Michael and Cas and Jack being held prisoner. If he has to prostrate himself in front of Michael to make their lives easier, to give them time to figure out another way to fight him, then so be it. _Pick your battle_ , he thinks.

“Crawl over here,” Michael says.

Sam feels heat rush into his cheeks at the honey drawl of Dean’s voice. That voice is the sound of lazy mornings where they would take their time in bed or of late nights in a dark motel room sharing a bed after a hunt.

His palms are slick with sweat as he lowers himself down on the thick Berber carpet and starts forward, keeping his eyes on the twisty strands below him. Each move he makes as he crawls across the penthouse floor is a small torture; he can’t swallow around the lump building in his throat and his arms begin to shiver with nerves. Every fiber in his body wants to fight. But with Cas and Jack somewhere else and no way to pull Dean out, he has no choice. Dean would trust him to make the right decisions to save everyone and Sam needs to focus on that thought and not the desire to rush the archangel and throttle him uselessly back into the couch. He halts the crawl when he sees the tips of Michael’s polished leather shoes and glances up again. In that second, he could swear that was his brother’s proud smile staring back at him.

“Right here, Sam.” Michael taps his inner thigh. “You’ll need to get close.”

Panic floods his mouth with a sour taste and Sam freezes. This isn’t just a show of submission and capitulation to Michael’s power - this is humiliation. For him and for Dean. A physical act with Dean locked inside, forced to watch with Sam as a willing participant. Sam can’t think over his pulse thumping in his ears and sways on his hands and knees. Michael makes an unhappy sigh at the delay.

“Perhaps I should call Jack in instead? To take your place?” Michael squints for a brief second and then he chuckles, a dry sound without Dean’s humor. “Oh, your brother doesn’t like that idea either.”

“Wait! Just give me a minute.” He crawls the last step to slot between Michael’s knees. As he sits back on his heels, the rest of the world is blocked on both sides by the deep navy of Michael’s thighs and Sam feels like a horse in blinders. He breathes through his nose to calm down and the up-close smell of wool and Dean’s body is too much and he has to close his eyes. Michael grabs him by the chin and squeezes it until Sam opens them again.

“Sam, if you don’t like the sound of my voice then maybe you should get busy.”

If he focuses on Michael’s face, the way his jawline is cleanly shaven or how his eyes crinkle up at the corners when his cheeks lift or the faint scar through his eyebrow, anywhere but the eyes, he might be able to pretend that this is Dean and not another archangel breathing polite and unspeakable threats down at him.

A thumb trails along Sam’s bottom lip confidently, possessively, and stops in the plump middle to pull it down. Smiling, amused at his own game, Michael pushes his thumb into Sam’s mouth where he meets resistance against the teeth and for a second, Sam is overcome by the urge to bite that knuckle through to the bone or to reach up and grab Michael’s arm and twist it away. Instead, he wills his mouth to fall open in invitation.

Michael slips his thumb in rubbing the tip of Sam’s tongue before pressing further in and Sam feels the spit gather in his mouth. He closes his lips around the thumb and swallows down to avoid drooling, sucking on the thick digit. The weight of it on his tongue floods him with soft night memories of the two of them wrapped around each other; he closes his eyes, light-headed, and reaches up to steady his hands on Michael’s thighs. 

“Dean always thought you had a mouth on you.”

A warm flush spreads over his cheeks again and his eyes fly open as Michael removes his thumb and pats Sam’s cheek before settling back on the couch. “You know what to do.”

Sam begins to pick at the silver buckle of the expensive leather belt, unclasping it and looping the strap back through. With Michael’s intense look, he can’t concentrate and fumbles the leather several times before pulling it apart. He unhooks the wool dress pants, smooth as butter under his fingers, and then unzips all the way down. Underneath, Michael’s black boxers smell of Dean and he leans in for more of it. They had been apart for so long already with what happened in the last few weeks with Mary and Jack’s rescue and Dean’s abduction and he’s missed this - being physically close to his brother. His face brushes against the cool silk and it reminds him that this is not Dean. He yanks back but Michael catches the back of his head, threading his fingers tightly into Sam’s hair, pulling him back down.

“Always so stubborn, little brother. My brother was like that and you know what I did to him.” Michael smiles fondly at the words and Sam blinks several times before he continues. “I like to teach lessons to those who won’t learn.”

Sam licks his lips and pulls the silk shorts down to expose Dean’s cock. Long, cut, and beautifully pink with its tip flushed a deeper rose. Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting but it’s a relief. In the end, this is Dean’s body and he knows every part of his brother. He lets the spit gather in his mouth and then licks his palm to start. Once more he can’t help but glance up at Michael whose eyes are half-lidded with satisfaction. 

“This is so... primitive,” Michael murmurs, “But I know Dean enjoyed this. Maybe I’ll let him watch.”

Dread and hope bloom in Sam’s chest that maybe Dean is close to the surface. He doesn’t care what he needs to do to keep Dean with him. He wraps his fingers around Dean’s cock and gives a stroke, watching Michael’s mouth open in response.

Sam runs his tongue up the underside of Dean’s cock where it’s most sensitive and slicks it up well. Before he takes the tip inside his lips, sucking gently, rubbing his tongue over the slit, letting his spit coat it and run down the sides of the shaft before he takes it into his mouth. Sam shivers, still unsure whether he has Dean or Michael at this moment, and lets the cock slip in more quickly than he usually does, bumping it against the back of his throat and he tries not to gag. 

Dean used to hold him loosely, let him adjust and breathe, to go at his own pace, but Michael’s hold is tight and Sam grabs at the fine wool fabric and twists it under his fingers. When there’s no sign Michael understands or wants to release him, he has to calm down, inhaling through his nose, opening his jaw as wide as it will go. After a moment, he is back in control of himself and begins to set a mindless rhythm of up and down, of sucking and releasing.

If it were just him and Dean, he’d take the time to kiss and lick along the vein that runs on the underside of Dean’s cock or nibble at the skin on the inside of Dean’s thighs making red tracks that he would smooth over with kisses. He would fondle and tug at Dean’s balls until Dean makes those little pleasure-pain gasps that make Sam hard, so hard. He would study Dean’s face closely in those moments to see the way it melts and morphs as Dean loses himself. If it were just him and Dean, he’d pull out his own cock as they reach the end so they could come together. But this isn’t Dean and Sam needs it over now so he twists his hand around the shaft as he pulls up, using a light drag of teeth along the bottom as he goes, and suckles hard when he reaches the tip, gliding his tongue in and out to sweep the soft spot underneath the head. Sam knows Dean comes quickly from this and he watches for some change in Michael’s face, hoping, wishing for something to indicate they are reaching an end, and slowly Michael’s forehead crinkles up and his mouth falls open with a groan.

“Sammy! Stop!” Michael opens his eyes wide but there’s only panic there. It’s Dean behind the green -- the look is too soft, too broken, to be anything else -- and Sam’s stomach drops. A crack in the veil means a chance to speak with Dean. Sam tries to swallow and pull off but his mouth is full and the come spills out over his chin, trickling down on his hands and over his fucking Armani shirt and pants. When he looks back, that moment is gone. Dean is lost again.

He hears a knock at the door to the suite and wipes at his lips, brought back to the reality of this room, of his situation and Dean’s. A suited monster enters and glances at Sam and its face pulls down in disgust at the scene before he stops at a respectful distance to address Michael. Sam tries to twist away, his vision blurry with tears that he will never let fall, but Michael’s hand on his shoulder keeps him kneeling in place. 

“We have an update for you, sir, on that situation we discussed.”

“Good. I think we’re done here,” Michael says, as he stands over Sam and wipes the dribble off his lips and chin with a thumb. He offers that same satisfied smile from before to show the battle’s already won. “Until next time, Sam.”


End file.
